


Two Halves of One Whole

by hoko_onchi



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: A lil smut as a treat, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Curtain Fic, Domestic Fluff, Episode: s03e05 A Life in the Day, Grief and Loss (minor), M/M, Pet Adoption, Post Resurrection Healing and Fluff, Quentin Coldwater Deserved Better, Quentin Coldwater Lives, memories of another life, mostly incredibly wholesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 06:40:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28631151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoko_onchi/pseuds/hoko_onchi
Summary: “It takes a lot to take care of a dog in a city like this. There’s just not much place for them to run around,” Eliot says. He places his thumb right over the furrow in Quentin’s brow.“We’ve got the backyard—and like, we’re walking distance from the park. And it’s good for—health. And exercise. And if werescuea dog, we’re rescuing it from, like, questionable circumstances. I have a list—” Quentin does have a list of arguments prepared in his notes app on his phone—and he isnotplanning to bring up the fact that he came back from the dead, and he should be able to have a pet if he wants one. He goes to reach for his phone, but Eliot stops him, catching his hand and threading their fingers together.“We’ll go to the adoption event, baby. If it makes you happy, we’ll do it.”
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 38
Kudos: 124
Collections: Peaches and Plums Stockings 2020





	Two Halves of One Whole

**Author's Note:**

  * For [freneticfloetry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/freneticfloetry/gifts).



> This is lovingly written for FreneticFloetry, who made me cry with Eliot and his secret love for horses. We stan a secret animal lover Eliot Waugh with complicated farm history, and Quentin, who really just wants small things to love. I'm so glad I became friends with you. It is a fuckin delight to talk craft with you, especially about the function of memory in narrative.
> 
> Thank you to Rubick, my life coach, cheerleader, and beta. And to my various cheerleaders and fandom friends; I wouldn't still be writing here without you. And I don't think I would have made it through this year without this fandom. I certainly wouldn't be the same person I am right now, and that's no exaggeration.

“I never thought I’d be living in fucking Brooklyn,” Eliot says when he puts his signature on the lease, but there’s no heat to it. Quentin thinks, sometimes, that Eliot feels compelled to say shit as a callback to his pre-monster, pre-quest self, like if he stopped being bitchy about something once in a while he might simply evaporate into the ether. 

In the actual timeline of apartment-hunting events, Eliot had been just as enthusiastic as Quentin in sifting through realtor.com listings for magician-owned properties that take a combination of spell work and actual money as rent. He’d even dropped the world-shattering sentence: _This place is in a good school district if we eventually want to buy._

Quentin had to go lie down for a solid hour after _that_ particular conversation.

The walk through of the apartment with its distressed hardwoods and exposed brick had rendered both Quentin and Eliot speechless. After weeks of touring cookie-cutter apartments in tall chrome buildings, it was clear—this was home. A magically expanded two bedroom with a sprawling living room, a balcony, and a magicians’ community garden out back, it had _personality_. Clout. Character and charm. Chef quality appliances in the kitchen for Eliot, floor to ceiling windows to let in light during Quentin’s darker days, space for their king size bed and the wrought iron frame they’d ordered. 

And now—

“Keys and key fob here.” The property manager, a sweet old lady who’s probably an eldritch monster or a demigoddess in disguise, hands Quentin the keys.

“That’s it? Like—we can just move in whenever now?” Quentin has spent so long living in places he’d never picked out that this seems—insane. Like it shouldn’t be allowed. Eliot’s hand slips to his shoulder, and the weight of it reassures him. 

“Whenever you like,” the lady says, giving him a moderately creepy wink. “You’ll find we’re a lot easier to deal with than most muggle landlords.”

When Eliot and Quentin turn to leave the property office, Quentin hears a series of pops that brings to mind the sound of stomping on bubble wrap—when he turns, he sees a rat scuttling from the property manager’s desk to the back of the office. 

“Fuck. Is she—a—a—um—” Quentin starts.

“Mm, yeah. Think so. But rats are highly loyal and intelligent,” Eliot says. “Deeply misunderstood.”

“If you say so.” Quentin is still staring at the space where the property manager once was when Eliot takes his shoulders and forcibly guides him to the elevator.

“And the rent is half what it would be in a muggle-owned building. We have _two_ bedrooms. A backyard, a garden. A balcony. She just needs a little spell work here and there, and the place is ours.”

“You sure this is a good idea? Hedges who can transform at will like that—are fucking powerful.”

“Let’s go up and look at it again. I’ll see if I can ease your mind.”

“How are you gonna—mmphh—” Eliot covers his mouth with a kiss and pulls him into the elevator.

“I’ll figure something out,” Eliot says between kisses. “I’ve got a few ideas for our very own, very empty apartment.

The place is no less beautiful than it was when they saw it two days ago. And Eliot, in the spirit of easing his mind, proceeds to strip Quentin and push him against the exposed brick wall, sinking to his knees and deepthroating Quentin’s cock until he’s teetering on the edge of release. When his climax begins to swell inside, the pressure and tension twisting so tight that he feels it in the roots of his teeth, Eliot pulls back and lowers Quentin to the floor. He dispenses with lengthy foreplay in favor of a prep spell and thrusts inside Quentin, hard and rough, pulling his hips back so that the slick, slapping sounds of sex and Quentin’s pleasured moans fill the high ceilings and bounce off the red brick walls of their new home.

 _That_ will be forever seared into Quentin’s memories. Suffice to say, his mind is eased considerably. 

~~***~~ 

Five days later, he and Eliot are officially moved into their new home—their very own bed and custom bed frame in the master bedroom, the second bedroom set up as a home office for Quentin, Eliot’s growing collection of cast iron cookware and Le Creuset knockoffs filling the kitchen, a sectional sofa on the way from Ikea to sit in front of the TV mounted on the wall. Domestic bliss settles over them, and they lay out blankets and have picnics on the living room floor, watching old seasons of “Bake Off” as they eat cheese and grapes and ciabatta from Whole Foods. 

It’s perfect. Their life, for the first time in this world, actually _works_. There’s no external threat encroaching, no self sabotage or doubts about their relationship. They’d spent the past year and a half slogging through therapy together, establishing actual jobs—Quentin doing mending contract work and Eliot working for a magician-owned event planning company. It’s good. No, it’s _great_. But Quentin can’t help thinking—

He feeds Eliot a grape and follows it with a kiss, tasting the sharp sweetness on his tongue. They kiss slow and soft with just a simmer of heat beneath the surface. “You know,” Quentin says when he pulls away, “the lease says pets under forty pounds are allowed.”

“Oh?” Eliot is mostly paying attention to the TV, running his fingers over Quentin’s arm, making his hair stand on end. “That woman on the bottom floor has that schnauzer that looks just like her. It’s frankly creepy.”

“I mean. They seem happy. The dog—he seems happy. And they go on walks—”

“Quentin, are you trying to tell me something?”

“There’s an adoption event at, uh. That fancy pet shop across from the park. I’m just—I’m home all day. And I always wanted a dog. But my mom wouldn’t let me have one—and my dad is allergic, so. I never had a dog. And I think I’d like—like a small dog.”

“It takes a lot to take care of a dog in a city like this. There’s just not much place for them to run around,” Eliot says. He places his thumb right over the furrow in Quentin’s brow. 

“We’ve got the backyard—and like, we’re walking distance from the park. And it’s good for—health. And exercise. And if we _rescue_ a dog, we’re rescuing it from, like, questionable circumstances. I have a list—” Quentin does have a list of arguments prepared in his notes app on his phone—and he is _not_ planning to bring up the fact that he came back from the dead, and he should be able to have a pet if he wants one. He goes to reach for his phone, but Eliot stops him, catching his hand and threading their fingers together.

“We’ll go to the adoption event, baby. If it makes you happy, we’ll do it.”

“I mean—if you have serious objections to having a pet—”

“I don’t. It’s just—we didn’t really have _pets_ when I was growing up. We had farm animals, barn cats. Hunting dogs that slept outside. I wasn’t—” Eliot pauses, and Quentin can tell that this is one of those things Eliot couldn’t have said a year ago. He squeezes Eliot’s hand. “— _allowed_ to develop affection for any of the animals. And when I did—animals aren’t exactly safe on a farm. It’s a harsh life, even if the animals aren’t meant for slaughter.”

“Oh. Oh yeah. That makes sense. I don’t mean to push—”

“No. No—it’s a good idea for you. I don’t know how well I’d do with an animal. So we’ll have to talk some more about it. When’s the adoption event?”

“Saturday. We don’t have to make any decisions this week. We can just go—look at the animals. If that’s something you’re willing to do.”

“I am. I think.” He gathers Quentin in his arms and kisses him, pulling one of the blankets over them. “I think we should probably get a couch before anything else.”

“Mm. Fair point.” A place to sit would be nice, but there’s a lot to be said for Eliot holding him like this. He really has no objections.

~~***~~

“Hey, look at this guy,” Quentin says. He’s already on his knees on the sidewalk, cradling a puppy in his arms. “He’s three months old, and he’s a beagle-corgi mix, so he shouldn’t be much over twenty pounds.”

Eliot gives him an indulgent smile as the puppy presses his cold nose to Quentin’s chin and licks him aggressively, yipping excitedly when Quentin puts him back down in his little fenced area on the sidewalk, squeaking a ball for him. “He’s really very cute,” Eliot says, still standing back. “But at that age, he probably wouldn’t be housetrained.”

Quentin sighs. “Yeah, yeah. I know. Not super practical, but I _am_ home all day.”

“It’s a consideration,” Eliot says, still kind of staying back from the crowd of people and animals. Quentin knows this is a big step—and it’s hard for Eliot to commit. Quentin is finally exempt from the ‘hard to commit to’ category, which is good. But—some things, like finding an apartment, or even a sofa—it had been like pulling teeth to get Eliot _started_. Once he moved on it, he was fully there, right along with Quentin. But before that—things with Eliot move like molasses. 

He shouldn’t be surprised about the animal thing, really. He knows more about Eliot’s past than anyone, knows all the dark ins and outs of how he’d been treated, and how so many childhood things Quentin took for granted just didn’t exist in the Waugh household. 

Quentin spends time talking with the shelter employees, and he holds the puppy for a while, letting himself smile when a family steps up and takes an interest. It makes sense for a family to have him, he assures himself. It just—makes sense. Quentin will be fine without an animal. Eliot’s right—they have to choose the correct time, find a pet that’s appropriate for both of them. He furrows his brow and looks around, not spotting Eliot in the crowd of people. He usually finds him by looking above the heads of other people, but he’s nowhere among the throng of people, not that Quentin can see. Panicking, he starts stepping between people, making himself small and saying _excuse me, pardon me_ , like he’s a waiter at one of the overly posh restaurants that Eliot likes.

When he spots Eliot, he doesn’t quite know what he’s seeing at first. He’s sitting on the sidewalk in his fancy emerald green trousers, scuffing up his shiny shoes while holding a very, very ugly cat, propped up on one of his long thighs. The poor creature has one eye, and its mottled orange and gray fur is patchy along one side, where there’s some kind of scarring. There’s what looks like a bite taken from one ear. 

“Hey, El,” Quentin says, approaching him cautiously, like Eliot might startle and run away into traffic. “Who’s this?”

“This is Vince. He’s a male tortie.”

“A what?”

“Like a calico, a little. Torties are almost always female. He’s probably got an extra gene in there. He’s a one in three thousand kinda guy.” The cat is burrowed into Eliot’s arm, and—Quentin didn’t see it before, there’s a small dog in Eliot’s lap. 

“And, uh. Who’s this?”

“This is Dolly. She’s a lab-chihuahua mix. She’s seven.” 

Quentin sits down and offers his hand to the dog, who looks like a very small golden lab with buggy eyes and perked up ears. There’s a scar running across her nose, and when she stands to lick Quentin’s hand, it’s clear that one of her back legs doesn’t work as well as the rest. 

“Hey Dolly,” Quentin says, petting over the soft, short fur of her head. “I’m Quentin.” She pushes against his hand, offering her ear, which he scratches behind. “Where’d you come from?”

“She was in the house where they found Vince.”

“Do I even want to know?” He looks to Eliot. Quentin has learned, in all manner of ways by now, that there are now things in life that he’s better off keeping away from his brain.

Eliot just pauses and shakes his head. His eyes are a little glassy and red around the rim. “No. I’ve been talking with Jeanine about it. I don’t think—if you want, you can read it in their file. But maybe just—don’t. Not right now.”

The woman behind the nearby table nods and gives Quentin a sad little smile. “They’ve both come out of their shells a lot since they came to the shelter. But they haven’t found their forever home just yet since we won’t rehome them separately. Vince was with her since he was a kitten. We don’t think they’d… do great living separately. Vince doesn’t eat when she’s not around. They share a cubby at the shelter.”

“Oh,” Quentin says, nodding, his chest a little tight. 

“You know, Dolly is pretty well housetrained,” Eliot says, like he’s continuing a conversation from a few moments ago. It takes Quentin’s brain a few seconds to catch up. “Jeanine says Vince is getting better about using a litter box. The circumstances of their upbringing weren’t exactly... ideal. So they’re not perfect with any of that.”

Quentin scratches the cat’s chin, and he meows weakly in greeting. “Hey, you looking for a home?”

Dolly settles back against Eliot’s leg, pressing her head to his knee, very clearly enamored with him. Vince steps lightly over to Quentin’s lap, poking his nose against Quentin’s sweater. He settles in Quentin’s arms, the rumble of a low purr coming to life inside him.

“I know the timing isn’t great, and we said we should wait—” Eliot starts, his brow furrowing like he’s trying to remember his own arguments. 

“Yeah. And we said we’d wait to get the sofa—” Quentin traces the lines of Vince’s ears and scratches over his head, down the back of his soft neck. His fur is mottled and asymmetrical in pattern, his tail a little crooked from God-knows-what. “—but we don’t need a sofa. That’s just like. A benchmark of being moved in.”

“Would you like your partner to cosign the application?”

Quentin raises an eyebrow at Eliot. “Went ahead and filled it out without me?”

“Thought I’d get a headstart,” Eliot says with a shrug. “Just in case. Didn’t want anyone else to pick them up if we wanted them.”

“Oh yeah?” Quentin looks over at Jeanine, who just smiles and shakes her head. “Thought we weren’t doing anything today.”

“Sometimes you see something in your life, and it’s just… right.”

“Yeah, I know how that is,” Quentin says quietly. 

“Don’t let Dolly fool you,” Jeanine says. “She may be demure right now, but she’ll give you a run for your money. She loves getting muddy at the park, playing fetch. She thinks she’s a dyed-in-the-wool lab.” Jeanine is already holding the application out for Quentin, who hands Vince back to Eliot and carelessly scrawls his name—there’s no way he’d even consider saying no to something like this. Most of his attention is still on Eliot, who’s holding both animals and talking to them quietly.

They stay with Dolly and Vince, walking up and down the block for two hours, until they’re both starving and a little delirious and happy—stupidly happy for the absolutely unadvisable decision they made, signed and solemnly committed to opening their new home and creating a new space in their lives.

“I’m glad they found their forever home,” Jeanine says, her voice cracking as she puts Dolly and Vince into their shared kennel to spend their last nights in the shelter. They don’t know it yet, but they’ll be coming to a magician-owned condo complex in Brooklyn. Maybe the lease is so lenient about pets because the property manager sort of—fits in that same category, Quentin thinks, laughing and choking back tears at the same time—not so much for Dolly and Vince because this is their lucky fucking day, but for Eliot, who keeps surprising him. He thought it would take months for Eliot to let his guard down, but it had just taken a short walk down the street.

Quentin pets Dolly through the crate, her warm tongue touching his fingers as Jeanine closes up shop.

“We’ll see you in a couple of days,” Eliot says, and they walk back home, talking about the logistics and the extra pet fees and arguing over whether to borrow Kady’s car to drive to PetSmart or go to the expensive boutique shop that had partnered with the shelter for the adoption event. Eliot wins that argument, and Quentin lets him.

~~***~~

A day and a half later, Eliot and Quentin still have absolutely zero couches in their apartment, but they have two kennels, a cat tree, two pet beds, several baskets of old dog toys from Kady and Julia, mountains of dog food and cat food and kitty litter, and a very expensive water bowl that connects to the water pipes in the apartment and filters the water and—it’s all around absolutely unnecessary, and Eliot insisted that they buy it. Eliot also makes a small litter box closet in the brick wall using a tricky planar compression spell—it’s warded to zap all odors, and Quentin even creates a little swinging door with an adapted mending enchantment to help maintain Vince’s privacy. And theirs, he guesses. There are harnesses and leashes hanging from their coat tree, heartworm and flea and tick medications, several dog training manuals from the library (and one heartwarming novel about a boy and his dog that Quentin knows will make him cry). It’s sort of a pet haven—with no pets. (And no sectional sofa.)

Vince is, apparently, sterile, and Dolly was spayed when they moved into the shelter several months ago—so their wait to pick up Vince and Dolly is not as long as normal. But still, two days is a long time once pet ownership has been decided, once it’s become a _thing_.

The night before pick up, they abandon their table for yet another dinner picnic, camped out on the floor in front of the TV. Eliot butters a piece of bread and passes it to Quentin. Quentin takes a bite, and Eliot leans in to kiss him, almost like he’d planned it, like he wanted to taste the butter on Quentin’s lips. They end up laughing and making out like a pair of teenagers, nestled among their baguette slices and the tapenade that Eliot made. 

They’re lazy for a while, just lying together because it’s not the penthouse and there’s no one around to tell them to ‘get a room.’ The TV had switched to idle at some point after they stopped paying attention to “Chef’s Kitchen,” and the HDMI input signal flickers over the screen, casting strange fluorescent shadows over the hardwoods.

Quentin’s head is full of all the pet things he’s been cycling through over the past forty-eight hours—frankly he’s still processing that it was Eliot who found them, Eliot who’d just _known_ that this is where they belong. Quentin, feeling the weight of nighttime hours before their 8AM pick up, is silent still, head in Eliot’s lap. Eliot’s fingers run through his hair, sending a pleasant, ASMR-like tingle over the back of his neck, echoing down his vertebrae. Usually it’s Quentin’s brain chatter that crashes into moments like these, but tonight, Eliot is the one who breaks the silence. 

“Do you remember Billie?” Remember still isn’t quite the right word, but it’s as close as they’re going to get in this world or any other, so it’s the one they use. 

“Yeah, of course,” Quentin says. He takes Eliot’s hand and kisses the base of his palm. Billie had been a sweet matron of a goat, extra sweet on Teddy, especially—many nights, they’d find that he had snuck her into his bedroom, Teddy curled up next to her, sleeping on the floor. She’d been a working animal, providing milk and cheese that they sold and traded in the village—but more than that for all of them. Teddy, especially.

“You know, when I got her, I wasn’t thinking so much about what she could do for us. I thought Teddy should grow up with a pet. Because I didn’t. I didn’t have a pet in any real way. And I always wanted one. I don’t think I ever told you that.”

“No. I don’t think you did,” Quentin says quietly. He slips Eliot’s hand into his and threads their fingers together. 

“It’s weird that there are whole years I don’t remember—seasons and holidays—birthdays I missed. But some things are so clear that it’s not even like a memory; it’s like it’s happening now, like it’s still happening. I can close my eyes and see Teddy scratching behind Billie’s ears and telling her it would be okay when she got sick—”

He presses Eliot’s knuckles to his lips, one by one and startles, laughing when Eliot pulls him into a kiss, his body contorted, and Quentin lifted by one of his long arms—it’s an awkward angle, and it makes Quentin feel a little like he’s in an awkwardly positioned renaissance painting, draped over a fainting couch. But the couch is Eliot’s legs. 

Honestly, he’s not mad about that mental image. But his back is starting to hurt, so he pushes himself up so they’re both sitting. He pushes his fingers through Eliot’s curls—his expression is still distant like he’s actually living the memory of ten-year-old Teddy bringing his pet inside the cottage a final time, tending her and mourning her with the kind of grace only a child can muster, the sound of his sobbing waking them in the night. 

Grief had long been a member of their household when they lost Billie, and Quentin has the same kind of distinctly sharp impression that Eliot does, he thinks—remembering how the death of his son’s beloved pet had called up long-forgotten emotion and recollection—Teddy’s vague memories and their distinct ones, wild and unexpected bursts of seasick grief that rocked them for months. He can feel it even now, the palpable, solid shape of it, a dark path alongside the equally vivid recollections of Ted’s kindness at the time of Billie’s passing—not just for Billie but for his fathers—and Quentin’s knowledge that his gentleness would follow him into adulthood, that he was witnessing part of who Ted really was, what he would be like as a person, and later, as a parent. 

“I mean, I think maybe it is,” Quentin says, his chest tight, hot tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, “always happening. Maybe it’s corny or, I dunno, like egregiously sentimental—but these are the things that built us. Even people with, like, normal lives—I dunno what that would be like but—” Eliot laughs and wipes away his own tears, and Quentin knows it’s never been easy for Eliot to let him see this part of him. He squeezes Eliot’s hand. “—I think we’re always living these memories because they’re part of the background noise of—everything we do.”

“I hadn’t thought about Billie in months. And it hit fresh when I picked up Vince. The loss is just—” Eliot says, drawing in a deep breath and letting it out slowly. “—unbearable.”

“Yeah—that’s—” Quentin knows Eliot’s not just talking about Billie—or like, pets in general—or even the impossible sorrow of remembering a life that they can’t live again. It’s more the cavalcade of losses that life begets—and the conscious choice it takes to keep on not only living but subscribing to life, actively choosing the pieces that will inevitably have an end—the inherent mourning that runs parallel to love. “—that’s how it is. It’s always a leap to—to take on something like this. And I know you see the responsibility in that, El. I know that’s like—why you’ve protected yourself so much. It’s vulnerable—opening a door like this.” 

“You’ve always been like that, Q. Opening doors. And portals.”

“Mostly without thinking. Or like—” Quentin laughs. “—almost entirely without thinking.”

“But I knew—”

“Yeah I know. I know you did.” He thinks of the mottled, one-eyed genetic anomaly of a cat kneading it’s paws against Eliot’s expensive wool trousers and Eliot tracing the soft outlines of his ears. How Dolly trotted along next to them when they walked her down the block with Jeanine, how she just gets on—on three legs. It’s a rescue animal cliche, the one-eyed cat and the three-legged dog, so un-Eliot-like on the surface and so deeply resonant with his—soul, or whatever, his _shade_ , the parts of him where child meets adult—all of Quentin’s squishy inner parts, too—reflections of their broken pieces and imperfections and their resilience in spite of it all; because of it. 

Eliot nods. “Thanks for knowing that we should do this.”

“I mean—I had no idea. I just—if there’s a door, I want to open it, I guess. See what’s on the other side.”

“Just dragging me along—”

“Yeah. Well. I love you for letting me, El. This is you, too. You found them.”

Eliot draws Quentin in and holds him, pressing a kiss behind his ear and pressing his nose to Quentin’s hair. “I’ll need an ensemble to match Dolly’s harness.”

“I’m very well aware,” Quentin says. “You know I’m just going to be walking her in my sweatpants.”

“I’ll get you a new pair of joggers if you’re going all Brooklyn dog dad.”

“Fair enough.”

“You really think we’re ready?” Eliot asks, as if, after all of this, the question still needs to be posed.

“We have all the accessories. So I think—honestly. It might be a total nightmare getting them set up, but we’ve been through a lot worse.”

Eliot nods, and Quentin feels the small movement against his hair. They hold each other in their blanket pile for a long time, moving to the bedroom without cleaning up dinner. Quentin guesses it’s his last night not cleaning up—but he’s fine with that. It’s a sacrifice he’s more than willing to make.


End file.
